


shone more bright than midday sun

by captainkilly



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Women Being Awesome, it's just me playing in someone else's sandbox and making a delightful mess, soft!Speirs makes an appearance folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27253627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Haguenau is nothing like the forest. As Easy Company is suddenly bogged down by more supplies than it ever asked for, Billie Mitchell begins to learn how to navigate command.. one injured captain at a time.
Relationships: Ronald Speirs & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	shone more bright than midday sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Darkening Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221827) by [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray). 



> The lovely and very talented MercuryGray has graciously allowed me this little indulgence and use of one of her awesome female characters, as I pretty much took one look at her Billie and said "why, she's perfect for Speirs" for reasons even I don't fully fathom. I suppose this fic therefore counts as an exploration of what-could-be..

* * *

Billie likes Haguenau. Not in that sense of it being a happy place, of course, because her toes still feel frozen and she could definitely do without the familiar mortar whistles, but it’s not as bad as the forest. Nothing’s quite as bad as the forest. Near-cold shower? Not as bad as the forest. Germans on the other side of the river? Not as bad as the forest. Letters from her mother? Not as bad as the forest.

She likes the vague sense of warmth that permeates the control post, even when the large house has not seen a flurry of activity and people like this in quite some time. She likes being clean even better, even when her hair feels a bit icy to the touch. Billie shrugs. Finishes wrapping the offending wet strands into a braid and loudly raps her knuckles against the wall.

“Where do you want these boxes, George?”

“Those the extra bandages?”

“Yeah,” she says, “already gave Gene and Ralph a box each but we somehow landed with two more.” She pokes at the offending boxes with her foot. Frowns as she watches Luz dance around the room with several smaller boxes in his arms before he sets them down on top of the couch. “Supplies shoved them at me right as I left the showers. Must’ve had my nurse face on or something.”

“Four boxes of bandages and still not enough morphine to go around.”

“God and supply officers all work in mysterious ways,” she quips, relieved to see Luz’s fleeting but genuine grin in response. Most smiles have turned awfully brittle and rare by now. “Marjorie’s trying to hunt the morphine down, I think, but she’s also been yelling at Lip to get back into bed or so help her – you know how it is.” She shakes her head. “Do you even have room for these?”

“Yeah, upstairs should do it. Don’t freak out if you run into Speirs up there. I think he’s currently trying to figure out if the mice still have something worth looting.”

“Thanks for the warning.” She huffs as she picks the boxes up off the floor. “I’ll see if I can organize something up there so that any excess supplies won’t get in the way of regular stuff too much.”

She nods at Luz’s thumbs-up and slowly picks her way up the stairs. Even the stairs are stacked with boxes, though there’s a clear path on the side closest to the wall that will hopefully see her upstairs safely. The two boxes of bandages limit visibility in her line of sight, but the worst enemy she could encounter indoors here is probably not a deadly one.

Yes, she definitely likes Haguenau better than the other places she’s been in the past few months. Even if it turns out, well, a good deal _stranger_ than she had previously anticipated.

Billie raises her eyebrows as she passes one of the bedrooms. Sets the boxes down a little further in the hallway and doubles back in a hurry. Catches her new captain lying flat on the floor with his arm outstretched beneath one of the larger cabinets. His focused gaze is directed at whatever he’s reaching for, which must be one of those trinkets he seems to have taken a shine to. He’s utterly unaware that she’s standing there, watching him, and for a brief moment she revels in the feeling of getting to observe him like this.

“What’re you doing?” she asks, then, because she was born curious like that.

She smirks – almost giggles, really – as Speirs shoots upright and almost smacks his head on the side of the offending cabinet. He kneels there a moment, seemingly collecting himself, before he turns around. There’s something halting in his movements, as if the fluidity of motion has somehow faded from his limbs. His gaze is unfocused for a moment before his eyes take on that intensity she’s grown somewhat used to by now. His voice, however, is as sharp as ever.

“Mitchell?”

“What’re you doing, sir?” she repeats, belatedly tacking on the formality. She smiles as she recalls George’s words. “Did a mouse make off with part of the loot?”

Speirs’s slow and almost confused blink sends a flutter of nerves down into her belly. Billie bites her lip as he rises to his feet and turns to face her completely. She’s relatively certain he’s not the type to shoot people for cracking a joke in his presence, as Nixon would probably be dead ten times over in that case, but she’s not altogether sure of Speirs yet. He’s been a ghost story to half the company so long – something to preoccupy them in the forest, always that damned forest – that watching him now feels rather like he’s coming to life right in front of her eyes.

“Not a mouse, Mitchell, no.”

“Good,” she says, and grabs hold of the broom that’s resting against the wall by the door. “I’d hate to smack it against its whiskers with this.”

She isn’t really sure why she’s helping Speirs at all. The looting business isn’t quite her cup of tea, although she’s certain there’s a sort of vindictive pleasure to be achieved by coming home with her arms full of loot. Yet, she stalks into the bedroom and drops to her knees in front of that cabinet. Sharply jabs the broom’s handle underneath it and sweeps until something shifts on the other end, rolls across the floorboards, and finally comes out to glint up at her in the light of the day.

“Well, sir,” she says breezily, flashing a grin up at Speirs while holding the silver object out for him to take, “what do you know, it’s the world’s ugliest napkin ring.”

“Is that what it is?”

She hums briefly while she gets back to her feet and sets the broom against the cabinet. “My mother would probably disown me if I couldn’t recognize one of those, sir.” She wrinkles her nose as she looks down at the object in question. Eyes it critically. “You’re better off throwing stuff like that at our enemy. Throw it right enough and you could blacken someone’s eye no problem.” She glances up at him a moment. Decides to audibly poke at what’s been on her mind since the early morning hours. “Though, I don’t think _you_ can do much accurate throwing right now.”

“Why’s that?”

Billie raises an eyebrow. “You’re favoring your left side a bit, sir,” she points out rather archly. Tries and fails to keep the challenge out of her voice. “You have been since that minor skirmish we got into early this morning.”

“Been keeping an eye on me, have you?”

There’s no real heat to his words. No judgment, either, and perhaps this is what makes her brave.

“Had to, sir.” She locks eyes with him now. Is almost surprised to find that his eyes are far less dark and far more golden than she thought they’d be. “You’re our new commanding officer. I don’t know you that well yet.”

“What’s the verdict so far, Mitchell?”

“You’re reckless to the point of foolishness, sir.” She turns up that megawatt smile she’s learned to perfect throughout the years. “And I’d like you a hell of a lot better if you let someone take a look at your side right now.”

“There’s noth–”

Quick as a flash, her hand shoots forward and connects just below his ribs. Her touch is still soft, as she didn’t set out to harm her commanding officer, but he recoils from her fingertips all the same. The words die in his throat and are replaced with a hiss of breath she knows all too well.

“Right,” she deadpans, “you’re totally fine.”

“I’ll get it stitched up later.”

She blinks. Raises an eyebrow. “You’ll get it stitched up _later_?” she echoes incredulously, almost certain she’s misheard. “You need _stitches_?”

Speirs has the grace to look just a bit sheepish. “The docs were busy and so was I.”

“And you didn’t think to ask if anyone else around these parts knows how to stitch you up?” Billie sighs. Pinches the bridge of her nose with one hand and gestures wildly with the other. “I was a nurse before I decided jumping out of an airplane to my potential death was a better use of my time. Now take that jacket off and let me get a look at it, sir.”

She isn’t sure if it’s her words that convince him, or the exasperated tone she knows her voice is laced with at this point in time, but he doesn’t even argue. His movements are slower than usual. Halting in fluidity, but not lacking grace. Not for the first time, she’s reminded of a caged animal when she looks at him. A caged, _wounded_ animal today – that much becomes clear as he unbuttons the jacket and she lays eyes on the darkened stain that mars his undershirt.

It’s training that takes over now. Training and pure instinct. Her hands are on his shirt before he even finishes removing the jacket. She presses her fingertips to bare skin seconds later as she pulls the shirt upward. It’s a relief to find his skin is not warmer to the touch than it should be, although his sharp intake of breath does nothing to assuage her concern. Cloth sticks to skin, however, and her fingers come away red and slightly slick with blood.

“This shirt needs to come off, too,” she says, “and you should probably lie down for this next bit. I’ll go grab a few things.”

She’s out the bedroom in a flash. Grabs a bandage out of the box she just carried upstairs, then finds a crystal bowl and piece of cloth in the larger bedroom. She washes her hands in the rather cramped bathroom before filling the bowl with clear water. It’s not a set of perfect circumstances, but it’s a hell of a lot better than most field hospitals get these days.

Billie is a practical sort, really. She prides herself on getting things done – one does not stay alive this long by doing nothing – and she doesn’t have enough time in the day for flights of fancy. She knows her voice goes seven levels higher than merely bossy when she’s in a mood, which is a right she exercises only in dire circumstances. Her fingers briefly clench around the crystal bowl in surprise as she walks back into the bedroom.

She isn’t sure what she expected, but captain Speirs following her every word to the letter was not exactly it.

The nerves in her belly are back and fully aflutter at the sight of him. Even lying on his side and as obviously wounded as he is, there is something about his presence that utterly fills the small room. There’s always something burning, scorching, searing about the way he elects to stare at whatever has captivated his interest. She’s seen it turn cold at the sight of the enemy – ice can burn, too, and leave permanent marks of distress – but the stare he directs at her is so warm that heat nearly rises to her cheeks in response.

“Did you find what you need?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She sets the bowl on top of the nightstand. Takes her medical kit out of her pocket and sets it on the bed beside him. “Don’t know why you haven’t looted this bowl yet. Rule number one: anything crystal that’s ornately decorated sells _really_ well.”

“Breaks easily, too.”

“Well, yes, this isn’t something you shove into your pack,” she admits, fingertips caressing the bowl briefly before she turns her attention to him. “I’d sooner box it up and send it back home if I were you. Or wherever you send things.”

“Maybe.”

It’s as good an admission as she’s going to get. Speirs, like Nixon, is strangely stingy with dealing out any kind of personal information that _matters_. She’d get a straighter answer from Winters, no doubt, and Welsh is even chattier than that, but there’s something charming about being left guessing too. Hell, she does a fair bit of that herself. Never show where your real hurt is. She thinks Speirs lives like that, too, except the light that dances across him now reveals more than it probably should.

Speirs’s hurt is mapped out on his bare skin.

It’s more than just the wound on his side, which seems to have opened anew and is bleeding steadily. It’s more than the bruised skin around the wound that is already turning purple. It’s silver-white lines on his arms and chest that follow the curve of his muscles and make her throat go dry. It’s a burn mark on the inside of his elbow and another on his belly that make her fingers hover over parts of his skin she’s not meant to touch. It’s a white line dipping from hip to somewhere beneath his waistband.

She has been trying to figure him out since that first jump into Normandy. She thinks she’s learned to see parts of the man behind the myth he willingly cultivates, but could never uncover the full story. She is certain she could trace the pathways of scars and learn him this way. Learn him like this, through touch and sight alone, through all the things that he never speaks about.

Billie shakes her head. “I don’t have any morphine for this, sir,” she says, allowing her fingertips to come to rest atop the bruise. “We’re still hunting down more. They gave us a lifetime supply of bandages, though.”

“Wouldn’t take it even if you had it.”

She frowns. Dips the cloth into the water and starts to clean the area around the wound. She hadn’t really expected any different from him, not from someone who believes themselves to be already dead or living on borrowed time, but the admission still stings the part of her that wishes to fix things as painlessly as possible. The cloth comes away bright red, which she takes to be a good sign. No marks of infection, which might be a small miracle given how poorly the wound was treated so far.

“Did you just slap a makeshift bandage on this and call it a day, before?” she asks, spotting bloodied cloth next to his shirt on the floor. “Honestly, sir, I have absolutely no idea how you’re still alive.”

The huff of breath that escapes him almost sounds like a laugh. It vibrates through her fingertips a moment. Fades as quickly as it came. She misses the sensation as soon as it passes. Nearly hungers to sense it beneath her hands again, to feel him press into her touch a moment instead of recoil from it, but this is not the place for something as light as that.

She seats herself on the bed beside him once the water in the bowl no longer resembles anything that is safe to drink. The cloth, now stained red through and through, slips through her fingers to the floor. Her medical kit thankfully still contains the bare necessities – needle, thread, tiny pair of scissors Gene had frowned at but ultimately borrowed.

“This next bit is going to hurt.” She issues the warning even though Speirs has already gone perfectly still beneath her touch. Raises her hands as if she is attempting to show a wild animal that she means it no harm. “I’ll go as fast as I can, okay?”

“Mitchell.” There’s a softness to his voice that makes her meet his eyes. She’s never seen him this open before – not even at Rachamps, when he’d smiled at Lipton, or on the road between Foy and Noville, when he’d attempted to learn names and jobs and everything else they managed to tell him. He wasn’t vulnerable in those moments, before. He seems to yield now, in words as well as gesture, which she can tell is foreign to his nature. “Take your time. I’ll live.”

Her hands never shake. They are her strongest ally in this war because of it. Her hands know the motions for stitches like these like they were born weaving them into air and flesh. Keep the world together. Keep people together, too. It’s the surest thing in her mind. All the rest falls into place eventually.

And then it doesn’t matter that she’s treating a wounded captain Speirs, coiled in on himself like a snake that’ll strike once it’s healthy again, or that they are in the middle of a war that rages around them in whistles and distant explosions beyond the safety of this room. It doesn’t matter that he trembles beneath her touch once the needle threads through his skin, or that his breathing goes a little erratic as she tightens the first of many stitches as much as she dares. It doesn’t even matter that his eyes flutter shut after she starts the third stitch.

_Yes, you’ll live,_ she thinks, and slowly begins to hum the opening bars to a song she hasn’t thought of in forever. Hasn’t thought of since before the world went to hell and she learned how to fly. Hasn’t thought of in years, not even in those quiet moments when it seemed like there was more to existing than fighting alone.

Song paces the stitches, makes her thread them through his skin with more certainty, keeps her hands steady and fluid in motion. Her voice always drops lower in song than in speech. She’s nothing like the gentle stream of healing she was taught a nurse should be. Billie’s always been half an undertow instead. Maybe that’s why the song she lands with, the only one that comes to mind, stirs up some kind of trouble too.

“ _I – ahh – I don’t wan’ta set the world on fire,_ ” she half-hums, half-sings, “ _I just – mhmm – wanna start a flame, a flame, a flame in yo’ heart.._ ” She hums the bars to the words she doesn’t recall as she stitches more neatly than she used to. “ _Hmhmhm – way down deep inside – and that one desire is you.. buuut I don’t wanna-na-na set the world on fire –_ ”

Somewhere near the end of that line, beyond the half-remembered love song from when she was a different woman, she’s surprised to find herself humming something else entirely. And oh, really, Eileen would never let her live it down if she heard it – not after she’d spent an hour griping about the sugary hopefulness locked inside the words – but Eileen isn’t here to hear her voice caress the notes now. There’s something safe in humming them here in the presence of a man she knows will keep all her secrets as well as he keeps his own.

“ _Somewhere.. over the rainbow.. skies are – mhmm, skies are – so, soooo blue_.” She’s confident she’s butchering it, almost laughs at herself as she closes up the final stitch, but keeps going as she checks over the row of the tiny marks she left upon her captain’s skin. “ _And the dreams, oh now, the dreams we.. dream? Oh now, the dreams we dream come true.._ ”

She reaches for the cloth on the floor after she sets the needle down. Wipes her fingers almost clean, though his blood coats her skin with a reddish hue she knows she will not be rid of so easily. And perhaps that’s the right thing, too, lodged in her thoughts as he’s been since he took command of the company, that he somehow leaves his mark upon her this way.

His breathing has evened out somewhere between first stitch and last hum. His eyes are still shut, but his face isn’t scrunched up in pain and he looks almost.. almost.. Billie sighs as she drinks in the slight peace that has somehow slipped into his face while she wasn’t looking. There’s a small upward curve that makes his mouth go softer, with dark lashes framing eyes that she has never known to be void of fire, and his hand rests against his brow almost as if he wishes to shield himself from the world.

Rest is a fleeting thing these days. Actual sleep even more so. She hesitates a moment because of this, knowing how often dreams have eluded her in recent days. Still, there’s a bandage to be wrapped around him now that the wound is closed. There is inventory to set right, loot to pack up, a patrol to plan, and probably a report or two that needed to be written yesterday already. She knows he wouldn’t forgive her if she left him resting on the bed like this at this hour.

“Sir.” Billie keeps her voice soft. “We’re almost done.”

There’s no response. She sighs. Reaches over, brushes a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, and rests her hand on his cheek a moment.

It’s enough.

His hand grasps her wrist mere seconds later. His eyes flutter open. He huffs out a breath.

“Hey,” she says, going perfectly still herself now that his gaze is still unfocused and his grip on her wrist almost hurts, “I’m sorry about waking you, sir.” She swallows thickly as his eyes darken before his thumb brushes a small pattern of recognition on the inside of her wrist. “The stitches are done. I need to bandage the wound. Gonna need you to sit up for that part.”

He complies wordlessly now that he is aware it’s just her in that space with him. The pressure on her wrist vanishes as he pushes himself upright. A soft groan escapes him as he shifts into a seated position.

“Yeah, that’ll be sore for a while. It’s the bruise above it that hurts more than the wound when you move, so should be fine in a day or three.” Billie grabs hold of the bandage. Shakes her head as he makes a small sound of dissent. Fixes him with her best I-am-your-nurse-I-know-better look. “Ideally, you’d not get involved in anything too strenuous over the next few days. I’d at least appreciate not having to redo those stitches.”

“They look good.”

“Yeah, so.. don’t mess them up, okay?” She can’t help but grin at him. Begins to affix the bandage properly. “This needs to be changed daily. Get me to do it. Get Gene to do it. Hell, get Nixon to do it if you’re so inclined. But it needs to be _changed daily_ , you hear me?” She scoffs. Lets her eyes travel to the bloodied cloths on the floor a moment before she looks at him again. “Those stitches need to be checked regularly. That bruise does, too. Don’t play the hero who doesn’t need anybody on this.”

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks. His arm comes to rest heavy upon her shoulders as he raises it to allow her to wrap the bandage around his torso. The familiar scent of smoke mingles with something familiar she can’t quite place now that he’s so close to her. “You never finished your verdict of me, Mitchell.”

“Reckless to the point of foolishness, I stand by that.” Her voice is thankfully still firm, even when his proximity almost steals the breath from her lungs. She wraps the bandage as tight as it should be. Attempts to ignore the fact that they very nearly share an embrace. “You know what you’re doing, though, if we ignore your approach to your current injury. And, well, I think you’re good folk.”

“I’m sure the rest of the company might disagree on that.” His voice is a low murmur now, close as he is to her, and strands of his hair briefly brush against her forehead as she leans in to finish the wrapping. “I’m sure you’ve heard stories.”

“Stories are true. Stories aren’t true.” She shrugs. “They’re just things we tell ourselves to help us make sense of the world. Of the people we meet. Of who _we_ are, even, if it comes down to it.” Her hands drop away from him. Her eyes meet his. “I think I know who I am. I know most of the people around me. I’m getting to know you. I know we need you.”

_That I need you_ , she almost says, sure as she is that he’s the only decision in this whole war she cannot find room to argue with. He belongs to this company in spite of and perhaps because of the myth that travels with him. The stories that have settled around him are heavier than the warmth of his arm on her shoulders before he blinks and withdraws. The tales she’s heard are of death following him like a shadow, but all she sees is light in golden-hued eyes.

“So,” she says, in a brave attempt to clear her mind, “you’d better do as you’re told and let that wound heal up the way it should.” She rises to her feet as she speaks the words, almost as if she’s the one issuing orders instead of him. “I’ve got inventory to organize before Luz adds even more to the pile of things we didn’t want but are not hopelessly stuck with. I think I’ll manage to find you a new shirt in there. Then you can go back to collecting ugly napkin rings, sir.”

She grabs the cloths off the floor, including the shirt, and unceremoniously dumps them into the bowl of bloodied water. Pockets the scissors from her medical kit and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ears. She’s not surprised to find it’s begun to curl at the ends already. If she unwraps her braid, later, she’ll wind up with the wavy hair she’s always coveted. She hums contently to herself at the thought.

“Mitchell.”

His voice stops her in her tracks. Makes her turn around again, with the bowl carefully cradled against her, and glance up at him. She isn’t surprised to find him already on his feet. Isn’t surprised to find that he has regained some fluidity of movement, either. He makes more sense to her like this, and the world shifts back to normal because of it.

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”

She doesn’t say _that’s my job_. Doesn’t say _it’s what I was trained to do, sir_. Doesn’t say _it was nothing_ the way she’s been taught to by everyone who thought she’d remain small forever.

Billie smiles up at him. Draws her shoulders back and decides to write her own narrative in the here and now.

“You’re welcome.”


End file.
